


Two Little Words

by MusicalRaven



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Between Seasons/Series, Canon Compliant, Depressing, Depression, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, If you want your heart to hurt read this, John in Denial About His Sexuality, John-centric, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Self-Harm, Unhappy Ending, just a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalRaven/pseuds/MusicalRaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It only took two little words to shatter John's world. To send him spiraling into a fate worse than death. A constant battle of confusion, anger, and hurt. Two little words.</p><p>"Goodbye John."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Little Words

**Author's Note:**

> I was just really in a mood for something sad. So here's John's POV of what happened during those two years Sherlock was "dead."
> 
> While writing this, I listen to [two years;](http://8tracks.com/deanfalling/two-years#smart_id=collection:12460248:falling-from-a-great-height) and [You Took The Colors With You](http://8tracks.com/linkthehylianhero/you-took-the-colors-with-you#smart_id=collection:12460248:falling-from-a-great-height) on 8tracks. They're really great for getting you into a somber mood. two years; was actually what inspired me to write this, so I really suggest checking them out.

It only took two little words to shatter John's world. To send him spiraling into a fate worse than death. A constant battle of confusion, anger, and hurt. Two little words.

"Goodbye John."

.

Later John recognized how much like Him he became in those months after. He only ever ate when Mrs. Hudson forced him to. He never really slept, only passed out from exhaustion occasionally, waking up from nightmares, unable to sleep again. He yelled at Mrs. Hudson. He yelled at At Molly. Hell, he even yelled at Mycroft for eating the last biscuit. 

He didn't care anymore who he was angry at. Only that the person he really wanted to yell at, the person he really wanted to shake and ask how could he do this to him, how could he do this to himself- that person wasn't even alive anymore. 

He had taken John's will to live the day He cracked His skull open on the pavement. And John didn't want it back.

.

Mycroft helped find him a new place soon after everything. Well, helped wasn't really the word for it. More like found and expected his acceptance.

"It'll do you some good." He'd said, standing off to the side of the room. John had clutched the chair tighter, refusing to look at the older Holmes brother.

"I'm not leaving." John said quietly. Mycroft sighed and walked into his field of vision. John changed his gaze to the mantle but Mycroft rapt his umbrella on the floor in front of John, demanding his attention.

"John, look at me." Reluctantly, John moved his eyes to Mycroft's shoes. Apparently that was good enough for him. His voice softened, but only slightly. "Your time for grief is still a lengthy process. But allowing yourself to wallow in this place will do you no good. The flat is small, but cozy enough for your sake." He paused, as if considering whether this next information was pertinent. "And it's close. You may visit this flat anytime you wish with hardly any trouble at all." John continued to stare at Mycroft's shoes. After two full minutes of this, Mycroft sighed again. "I'll leave you to your deliberations." He was gone before John could blink.

With that, he was alone again.

.

Within a month, he'd moved in. Mycroft had been right when he'd said it was small. It reminded him of a jail cell, except with more color. 

He hadn't wanted to disturb anything of His, but he knew he had to at least move his own things to his new place. So he carefully extracted that which he owned from Baker's Street and moved them to his new place. It was only then when he remembered just how little he had, and how much of His he had practically adopted as his own.

He cried that night, huddled on the floor amidst his meager possessions, knowing at that moment it would be a long time before he returned to Baker's Street.

 

John treated his new flat like he'd first impression. Like a cell. Day in and day out he'd move round the place, letting the dark thoughts of his mind play through his head, memories of that fateful day rewound over and over. The bottle became his new best friend. He'd leave his cell only to purchase more before returning and settling back into a routine of drinking and memories.

And when he remembered the blood; the pain; the torturous, heartbroken words in His voice- when he remembered he'd take the small blade and cut the blood and the pain into his skin, if only to remember them. 

It was never deep enough to scar; Only deep enough for him to remember he was still alive. To remember exactly why he shouldn't be.

.

He never dug into that deep, dark pool of feelings. Those ones bubbling just under his skin, constantly reminding him of why he wouldn't let Him go. Couldn't let him go. He refused to give them a name. To give them a name just meant pure heart break, a through slashing of his heart he knew he couldn't recover from. He didn't know if he could heal from his best friends death. If it was anything more…well he might as well be dead.

So he told people he was fine. When Molly came over to bring him homemade lasagna with burnt corners and soggy cheese, he forced the mess down his throat and plastered a smile to his face. When Greg tried to pull him out for a night on the town, insisting he could use the fresh air, John just smiled and said he was perfectly okay, but thanks anyways. And when Harriet came to visit, bringing with her a blonde haired woman with a warm smile and a familiar look in her eyes, he nodded in all the right places and smiled like he meant it.

And strangely, when he said goodbye to her and said he hoped he'd see her again, he finally did mean it.

.

He can pin point the exact moment he finally began to let Him go.

Greg brought some things from his office. Some things of His. A yellow mask. A little toy train. Trinkets of memories from cases past. But most importantly, he brought a DVD with a living, breathing Sherlock on it. John felt elated. Here was something new about that man he'd known for so long. But he had contained his excitement. Said goodbye to the detective and had gotten himself a drink. He did hesitate, knowing that once he watched it that'd be it. The last new thing he'd get about Him, ever. The only time he'd experience this and then it'd be over.

It took him a minute, but he finally put it in.

When he heard Sherlock's voice, the first time in so long, his heart skipped in his chest. He took a shaky breath, watching Sherlock ramble on camera. He hadn't remembered how graceful he moved. Even how much he moved when he was uncomfortable or nervous. Hadn't remembered just how abrasive he was, and yet he couldn't help but smile at his insensitive words. He could almost believe they were said out of care for him, even though he was sure they couldn't have been. Sherlock didn't care for anyone. That was just the way he was. Well, how he'd been anyways.

The more Sherlock talked, the more John started to sink back into his depressed state. As he went to drink more, he told him could stop being dead. A sarcastic comment that quickly turned into shock when the video answered him, practically making him drop his drink. But it was a video, not a living person. So it moved on and the moment was gone. He could breathe again.

He had to pause the video because Mary had decided to come over, something about Harriet telling her he could use some company. When she basically invited herself in, he quickly shut off the video, excusing it as some stupid old thing he'd been watching. But as she started to share more about herself, as she asked about his drinking and he finally talked about it, he realized. Sherlock was gone. There was nothing he could do about that. No matter how much he begged and pleaded and cried over his best friend, he was never coming back.

That was the day he told himself he'd find a way to get over Sherlock. Starting with taking Mary out to dinner.

.

It didn't take long for Mary to entrench herself in every bit of his life. Slowly, she filled in every little hole left by Sherlock's absence. Became his confidant, his friend, and most importantly, his love. She was his everything, and slowly but surely, Sherlock faded to the back of his mind, a ghost of a memory. 

She was his and he was hers. And he was going to ask her to marry him.

.

It only took two little words to shatter John's newly constructed peace. To breathe life back into that ghost and to derail his plans with Mary into another mess of confusion, anger, and hurt. Two little words.

"Not. Dead."


End file.
